Reluctantly, Richard began to observe Clara more closely.
He noticed the little things:
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The way Clara patiently braided Amelia’s hair, even when the girl squirmed.
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The way she kneeled to Amelia’s level, listening as though every word mattered.
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The way Amelia’s laughter rang brighter, freer, whenever Clara was near.
Clara wasn’t polished, but she was patient. She didn’t wear perfume, but she carried the comforting scent of fresh laundry and warm bread. She didn’t know the language of billionaires, but she knew how to love a lonely child.
